Firstborn

by Lorie Ann Grover

  I slump against the wall. “It was blank,” I groan. Mirko clicks his tongue. My body trembles to contain my tears. Useless. Worthless. Another evidence of how the Madronians strip our dignity with meaningless tasks.

  My hunger and thirst ache through my belly and throat. With one last swallow, my water sack is emptied. Mirko licks a droplet from the edge.

  I push myself from the wall and rap the door. “Lookout,” I call, quickly wiping my eyes. “Lookout, may I have some water for the descent?” I plead to the black wood. The wind whisks away my begging, and the Madronian doesn’t open the door.

  Mirko grasps the water sack in his talons.

  “That puddle a ways down? Maybe a patch of melted snow?” He nods and flaps away.

  Straight below is the Common. The boys are dots, moving about. I hate this idiocy. As if any of this turmoil makes R’tan boys stronger. The Madronians are fools.

  “Thank you, Mirko,” I call, weaving over to the top of the path. I sit and scoot, resting my heels in the carved holds. The winds have strengthened; a gust could fling me down the side of the rock.

  I fix my gaze on the landing below and inch my way back into their stupid game.

  CHAPTER 38

  PIERCED

  Ratho carries my pack and his own as we move in line toward Droslump. My head still tingles due to my labored breathing during my quick descent. Even with my full effort, I only returned just in time for patrol. I’m sure my feet are blistered and bleeding. When I climbed, I didn’t take enough care not to bang my toes against the rock. Now I will pay for it.

  Mirko hums beside me, and Thae smiles at me from the other side of Ratho. I manage a nod to her.

  Being last in line, the four of us were ignored when we joined rank; yet the shunning felt colder than normal. My hatred for Droslump is enough to counter it. I’m sure he’s the one who chose my punishment.

  Ratho said Devino was taken to infirmary after falling unconscious during the second group of drills. At least maybe now the foolish Madronians will feed him.

  Spinko and Fren, two patrollers who never seem to draw notice to themselves, take their portion and instructions, then jog off to the northern post. I step forward with Ratho. The apprentice darts the last map to us. Ratho takes it, but the young man won’t meet our eyes. Looks like the next to the last position in the south.

  “To cleanse the sin from the patrollers, Four-Winged Condor,” says Droslump with tight lips. He places a wafer on Ratho’s tongue.

  The govern turns to me. Heat streams from his hand as his fingers extend the wafer. I hold my head steady and open my mouth wide. His bony fingers lay the bread behind my front teeth, and at the last moment, Droslump’s pointed index fingernail strikes, piercing deeply into my tongue.

  “Huh!” I jump back. Mirko beats his wings furiously, and my tongue throbs along with his rhythm. I spit out the wafer into my palm. It’s soaked in my blood! When I look up, I see the apprentice hurrying away from us.

  “Swallow the gift of the Four-Winged Condor, patroller!” Droslump hisses while tipping wine into Ratho’s gaping mouth. The govern steps to me with his hand upraised. I lift the bloody bit back to my mouth. It disintegrates with a swallow of my blood.

  Before I can finger my tongue to staunch the wound, Droslump holds the cup to my lips. He strikes the clay rim upward. Creator Spirit! My teeth ring, and I sputter flecks of wine and blood onto Droslump’s embroidered condors. He smacks me across the temple and blackens everything.

  “Tiadone.” I open my eyes. Ratho’s lips are close to my ear, and I’m suddenly alert. “Tiadone, come. We must leave quickly for patrol.”

  “Yeth,” I mumble, my tongue a swollen mound. I try to sit up, and realize Mirko is squatting on my chest. “Go on,” I say and roll him off. He chortles in concern.

  With a worried Thae on his shoulder, Ratho pulls me to my feet. I take a step and soon get my legs steady beneath me. Ratho hands me his water sack, and I take a swig. I dribble the bloody stream out into the sand. The next time it runs pink.

  “Droslump is gone, but I’m sure he’ll be back soon to be certain we’ve left.” Ratho brushes my twists from my eyes. He grimaces at what must be a bruise on my face. His fingertips sweep my cheek, and he makes the blessing gesture on my forehead.

  I hold back my sobs. “Patrol,” my throbbing tongue fumbles.

  “But first, you need to change,” Ratho says. I look down at my clothing. When I was knocked unconscious, I wet my trousers. Could the humiliation grow worse? “Come. It’s all right. Earlier, I saw our clean clothes were already delivered.” He leads me by the hand to the Sleeping Cavern. Our rapion swoop close above.

  Ratho pauses. “Let me see your tongue.” I stick it out past my fevered teeth, and he shivers. “Fleabots, that’s bad. He must have had a poison under his nail!”

  “That explains the thwelling.” I feel over the lump and gouge. My head lightens.

  Ratho clasps my shoulders. “Can you go change while I fill your water sacks?”

  “Yeth.” I wipe my damp, cold forehead.

  “Let me see you walk through the opening then.”

  I lunge toward the entrance. “I’m fine,” I mumble. Mirko lands beside me and rubs against my calf.

  “Go on then.” Ratho runs to the spring.

  I make my way down the hallway but lean against the stone when my sight warps. The condors glare at me from their niches. “I’d like to melt every last piece in the fire pit,” I slur.

  Mirko hisses, and his feathered head fills my dangling palm.

  “I wouldn’t really do it.” I sniff back my tears. “I’ll play, Mirko. Nothing I did mattered today anyway. Nothing at all.” I hang my mouth open for the cool air to fight the heat boiling from my tongue. My boots shlump forward in the sand.

  Ratho helps me stumble out to patrol. The Baltang boys we replace hurl insults for our tardiness. Even the red seeping through the skin of my boots does not soften them.

  “It’s good to be rid of you! May your rapion fly low and heavy with avian worms!” Ratho curses them as they finally disappear over the knoll.

  I smile. “And may you wake in the morning with bots in your nose!” I murmur, noticing my tongue feels less swollen.

  “Harsh!” laughs Ratho. “Oh, your father hates the goat bots.” I flop beside the fire, and Ratho flips the hourglass.

  Thae assumes position on the taller cairn, and Mirko tugs at my boots. “Yes, I’ll check.” I pull the goatskin off one foot at a time. We all intake a big breath. My clean socks and the numbing sheathes from the ardis plant we found mid-route are blood-soaked.

  I peel everything off my feet before the wounds seal further with the fibers. Tears float over my eyes. My feet are bloodied and blistered like never before. Especially the ends of my toes; one nail is already blackened.

  Ratho whistles, then quickly retrieves the pot from the cottonwood and fills it with water. “We have to clean you up first.”

  I grimace and prop my feet on a small boulder and lie back. The twilight stars swirl. Exhaustion overtakes me.

  “I’ll gather aloe, and what else?”

  “There’s probably no ardis out here, but yucca strips for bandages will help,” I say with what little energy I have. Mirko blows gently on my wounds to lessen the sting. As I pass out, I hear my stomach grumbling for food.

  CHAPTER 39

  A BABE

  Frana washes dishes,

  and Father rocks in his chair.

  The room smells of sweet tuber stew.

  I place my hand on Father’s shoulder.

  He reaches his calloused hand through mine,

  and a smile flits on his lips.

  He smells of goats.

  “Are you sure you don’t need help, Frana?”

  “No. I’m nearly done,” she says.

  I glide my hand over the wall stones

  hiding our Oracles and sigh.

  “Do you feel a draft?” Frana asks.

  She
turns. Beyond her usually full frame,

  her belly is rounded gently with child!

  My shaking hand covers the swell.

  My sibling presses back.

  “Oh, the babe rolled!” Frana laughs.

  She grows smaller and smaller

  in a pinprick of light.

  CHAPTER 40

  NEVER AGAIN

  I wake calling, “Frana!” The fire cracks and shows Mirko and I are alone. With glowing eyes, my Signico flaps to my side and trumpets for the babe.

  “Father’s bound to Frana, and she’s with child!” My mind is numbed by the vision. I am to have a sibling!

  What does this mean to me? I am to share my father’s love with Frana and a babe? Will there be room for me when I return home? Will I belong and still be Father’s portion?

  Jealous fingers pinch at my centerself. The babe will not be a firstborn to Father. Already its life is better than mine.

  Stop it! I fold my arms across my chest and rock, hoping to calm myself. The truth that I myself will always be alone and barren pierces deep, deep, deeply, but I cram it aside. To have a child is not the right or experience of a male. Especially, not the declared.

  Anyway, what I can do is love this child, and it may love me. I vow to nurture it as I have my rapion.

  Mirko nibbles my sleeve, bringing me back to my surroundings. I sit up carefully and draw my throbbing feet close to inspect them. They are clean at least.

  Mirko grins and whistles. I blush at the thought of Ratho’s touch: that he would look at my sores, and that I would sleep through his care. But he has done an amazing job. The open blisters don’t look nearly as bad now that the blood is gone. Herbs will prevent infection, ones Ratho or I can easily find. I stretch my feet toward the fire, keeping the blanket under them.

  I probe my tongue and teeth and find a pinoni leaf. Mirko waddles with satisfaction. Ratho placed it there? I sigh and smile. Certainly the swelling of my tongue has truly gone down and the ache of my teeth has lessened. The gouge still pulses, but as Father says it is good to be young. The young heal quickly. “My mouth is nearly numb, Mirko.”

  He fluffs on my lap; in response my stomach rolls its hunger against him. He pads his feet, talons lifted, and the cramping eases.

  Soon, Ratho and Thae trot into camp. “We feast tonight!” he shouts.

  At the sight of an owl and rabbit hanging from his fist, I clap and Mirko sings a celebration. “What a catch, Ratho! Bring me the bird, and I’ll start plucking.”

  “You sound so much better, Tiadone!” He skids on his knees through the sand to my side.

  “I am. Thanks to you.”

  Ratho shrugs. “You are my partner.” I return his smile. “So, the owl had just risen with the rabbit in his grip when my bola took them both down.”

  “Your aim and a gift from god!”

  “Yes, the Four-Winged Condor showed favor!”

  I ignore his adage and set to plucking while he removes the rabbit entrails for our rapion.

  Ratho glances at my feet. “I have your leaves in my pack for bandaging.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Let me see your tongue.”

  I stick it out carefully. Ratho bites his lip. “Really. It’s better,” I say.

  His hand curls into a fist, but then he continues his work. As I watch the rapion tear into the innards, a quill slips and jabs into my thumb. I quickly press the wound to my trousers to stop the bleeding.

  “Ratho, I won’t — ” He looks up. The firelight flickers across his brow. The beauty of his focus on me and his sincerity stop me. I force myself to breathe. “I won’t rebel again. I ask forgiveness.”

  He brushes his shoulder against mine, sending tingles down my arm. “That would be good for all, Tiadone, and you would honor the Four-Winged Condor.” I can’t meet his eyes. “But I know you intended well,” he says.

  The owl’s beak falls open in my lap. My mouth feels just as slack. I rush to ask what I’ve always wondered. “Ratho, have you” — I tumble the words out — “always believed in the Four-Winged Condor?”

  “Tiadone!” He glances about us into the darkness then turns back to me. “What has happened to you? First you defy the Madronians at morning meal, and now you question my allegiance to the Condor?” He reaches over and grips my hand, stops my plucking. “It is as if you are a different person, Tiadone.”

  I release the feather and twine my fingers with his. I grasp him tightly. “What if the true god is the R’tan god, not a creature, Ratho, like us or the rapion? What if he’s a spirit?” He locks on to my eyes. “What if God is the Creator Spirit?”

  Ratho gasps and tries to wiggle his hand out of mine, but I hold tightly and rush on. “Just think. The Four-Winged Condor is not who the R’tan have worshiped from the time the first man and rapion hatched beside the sea. It has always been the Creator Spirit. Didn’t your parents teach you so?”

  “No!” He tugs free and slumps on his haunches. Thae and Mirko look up at our silence, their beaks rimmed with blood.

  “Look at them, Ratho.” I point to our rapion. “They are birds, as the condors are that fly in the southern realms. We are all created. Couldn’t we have all been made by the Creator Spirit?”

  “It’s blasphemy worthy of the stake,” Ratho whispers. He turns and fiercely peels the skin back from the rabbit carcass. “Please don’t speak of this again.” He reaches out and drags a bloody finger down my cheek — blood to cover my heresy.

  I blink. If only I had someone besides Father and Mirko to share my beliefs.

  “Never again speak of such things, my friend,” Ratho begs. The fire crackles and sparks into the air, like my hope crackles out of my body with my nod.

  CHAPTER 41

  FAILURE

  Winter completely rolls over, the weather warms, and the dina cacti burst pink flowers across the desert. Walking along Perimeter at dawn, I laugh at the newly hatched lizard scurrying from Mirko’s talons. The baby snips beneath a boulder.

  As soon as Mirko takes to the air, the lizard peeps out again, and I see it is a female who has survived my Signico’s attack. How does the babe grow within Frana, I wonder, trying to encourage my excitement and silence my lingering jealousy.

  I clamber up the boulder and run down the other side. What a relief my feet and tongue have healed over the past weeks. I’ve played the game completely each time we return from patrol, although my hatred for Droslump is still raw. I don’t mention the Creator Spirit to Ratho again.

  Arriving back at our post, I find Ratho has left a rock on the knoll to show he and Thae are off picking berries. Mirko plops down beside me when I resume work on the sandal I’m forming with strips of rintell bark. These won’t be very durable, so we’ll need many pairs.

  “I can’t believe the Madronians didn’t give us leather sandals,” I grumble to Mirko.

  He blinks at me.

  “You know, when we turned in our winter uniform for spring issue?”

  He preenes his shoulder.

  “Yes, well, it’s not easy to make these, you know.” I pull a tight weave for the soles then crisscrosses for the top of the foot. My hands do grow more nimble with each sandal I complete, as I recall little weaving tricks Frana taught me when I was younger.

  That evening, when Ratho, Thae, Mirko, and I return to the mesa, we find the Carterea standing in formation in the Common. I tuck the newly finished sandal into my pack. “What could this be about?” I whisper. Ratho shrugs, and we step into line and assume position with our rapion at our feet.

  When Droslump swirls out of the Eating Cavern, my centerself shrinks and flutters in the hollow. He crosses his arms and lifts his voice. “A desert cat has slipped past Perimeter and is attacking the village herds. Goats are being lost by your failure.”

  Groans and mumbles rumble through the patrollers. A wind whirl adds to our confusion.

  “Remain in rank!” Droslump shouts.

  We stand in place while the sand spins frenet
ically around us. I shut my eyes to the grains peppering the air until the whirl finally zips beyond the mesa. We rub our eyes and faces, then return our attention to Droslump. I listen for words that will answer my questions: Which herder has lost goats? Will the children in the village be threatened?

  “For your failure, water supply will be removed until Madronian soldiers kill the cat.” Suddenly my throat is lined with dust. How can they remove our water supply? That is insane!

  “Dismissed, you worthless load of goat dung!” Droslump gathers his robe and stamps back into the Eating Cavern.

  Everyone shifts and turns to the spring. The water gurgles to a stop, and the trough begins to drain.

  “Quick!” I yell and race to it, Shiz running at my side. We scoop our water bags full before the trough empties thoroughly. He lifts his bag to me. I grin at our success, and Mirko whistles at Baesa.

  “The Steam Pockets,” someone yells, and Shiz, Baesa, Ratho, and Thae join the crowd.

  They are willing to risk the stagnant water? I shake my head and take a sweet sip from one bag, and Mirko ducks his beak in afterward. We slide to the ground and lean against the quiet spring. With his mouth gaping wide and empty, the Four-Winged Condor looms silently above us.

  “We will play their game, and pray to the Creator Spirit that the cat is found quickly,” I say.

  CHAPTER 42

  WATER

  It is Mirko who saves Ratho and me from the imposed drought. Able to part from me, he illegally crosses Perimeter and discovers a water source somewhere in the desert stretch between R’tania and C’shah. Far beyond our line.

  When he first motioned to go, I refused. “No, Mirko! Absolutely not!” He took the bags and went anyway. Cursing and yelling, I ran after him until he quickly outflew me.

  Ratho and Thae called me back to camp. While I suffered from separation sickness, they tried to distract me continuously until we saw Mirko slowly beating toward us, the water-filled bags looped over his neck.